


Drifting Down and Away

by frondescence (halfbloodranger)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I just see them as platonic/qpp so! it stays clearly in that, Platonic Relationships, Sleep, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, crowley's tired but hell is scary, you can read it as romantic if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19234342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfbloodranger/pseuds/frondescence
Summary: Crowley stumbles into the bookshop at two a.m., and Aziraphale figures out why he can't fall asleep. It's a wingfic, through and through.





	Drifting Down and Away

**Author's Note:**

> I was a fool to make this present tense, and I am sorry in advance for it. I promise it isn't noticeable, though, just a pain in the ass to write. Enjoy!

Crowley doesn’t think about it much, at all if he can help it, but Falling is not a particularly pleasant experience. One doesn’t expect it to be, of course; getting fired from any job isn’t exactly ideal, but being tossed from literal divinity is particularly painful. 

Problem is, there’s nowhere to go if you fall right past Hell. 

At least, that’s what Crowley assumes he must be doing. No one has ever Risen before, so if he’s disobeying Hell’s orders he must be on his way to somewhere further down. Hell 2. Maybe he’ll cease to exist at all; if he’s so terrible at any job he’s given, perhaps it serves him right. Crowley pretends as if he does not think about this much, but after being a direct cause of Satan’s loss of his one and only son, well, it’s becoming difficult to avoid it being on his mind. 

Most of the time it doesn’t matter. Adam created a lovely version of the world in his reset, and having no standing orders means he and Aziraphale have plenty of time to stroll the gardens and share tea. But when he goes home to his flat at the end of the day and curls up on his luxuriously soft bed to sleep, as he is fond of, he finds himself absolutely unable to drift off.

Which is why, precisely two and a half weeks after Not-Armageddon, Crowley is knocking on the door of Aziraphale’s newly un-burnt bookshop at two in the morning. He knows that the angel doesn’t indulge himself in the human creation of sleep (not that he understands why, given how enjoyable it usually is), but he still feels bad disturbing him at this hour. Except that demons shouldn’t feel bad, especially about bothering angels. So he doesn’t feel bad. Except he does. Crowley shakes his head like a dog that is trying to rid itself of a particularly obnoxious earworm, and ends up looking like a mad fool when Aziraphale opens the door. 

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale says bemusedly as he steps aside to allow the demon to enter. 

     “Angel,” Crowley replies stiffly, twitching his head two final times before successfully transferring the shaking to his hands, where it is less noticeable.

“Why are you here? Aren’t you usually sleeping at this hour?” Aziraphale asks, returning to his desk.

     “Yes, I am,” Crowley grumbles, tossing himself into the couch behind Aziraphale. He groans in despair as the shaking travels stubbornly to where his feet are crossed on the arm of the couch. It takes Aziraphale a couple of seconds to finish the last sentence on the page and turn to Crowley, giving him much needed time to somewhat still his traitorous ankles. Still, Aziraphale’s eyes flicker to his feet before he meets Crowley’s shaded eyes.

“Can’t sleep, hm?” Aziraphale asks, eyes revealing that intoxicating, infuriating concern he always seems to fall into so easily. This is why Crowley wears sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”

     “Nothing’s wrong,” Crowley hedges, picking at the black paint on his fingernail. “Just… not tired.” 

“Are you usually tired when you sleep?” Aziraphale asks. “I thought it was just for fun, like how I enjoy a good crepe.” Crowley scowls at him, frustrated but not surprised that his excuse hadn’t worked. 

     “Well, yes, but I do have to… relax. Get in the zone.” He gestures with his hands dramatically before letting them flop onto his chest. “And I just. Can’t.” 

Aziraphale nods slowly, still seeming somewhat lost. “Well, what’s worrying you, dear? Armageddon's over, and I reckon it’ll be at least a decade before either of our respective offices decide to look for us again.” 

     “That’s just the thing,” Crowley replies, sitting up. “I just don’t believe that.” He stands, suddenly needing to pace. “I mean, I know you have no reason to believe this, but I know that I can’t just not do what the higher ups, or lower downs, I suppose, say and then saunter off all proud of myself. I mean, you can, clearly, but that didn’t go over well for me the last time I did,” Crowley bitterly gestures to his sunglasses, “and I doubt the new boss will be any kinder.” He pauses, running a finger over a dusty shelf. “I just… am not really looking forward to that again,” he says softly.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “I didn’t realize it hurt you that badly.” He hovers over Crowley’s shoulder, looking, as always, concerned.

     “Oh, buzz off,” Crowley snaps, turning away to pace again. “You thought it was just a nice little stroll down a sunlit path, didn’t you. It’s Hell, Aziraphale. Literally.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Aziraphale says, starting to wring his hands at all of Crowley’s pacing. “You never said anything about it, so I never thought it bothered you.” 

     “Well, it certainly does now that it’s about to happen again!” Crowley snarls, throwing his hands in the air. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you, dear?” Aziraphale asks, gently. Crowley stops pacing, but the way he just stands there, shivering, is far more unsettling. Aziraphale suddenly wishes he would continue pacing, and considers doing so himself, just to encourage him. Instead, he just steps a little closer, close enough to hear what Crowley says next, soft as a dove’s wing in snow.

     “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, and Crowley thinks that if he could just keep the memory of Aziraphale saying his name like that, all soft and understanding and warm, he could endure whatever this Fall entailed. He gently touches Crowley’s shoulder, who jumps as if Aziraphale has shoved him into a church. “I won’t let that happen,” the angel says, suddenly looking very determinedly proud of himself. Crowley can’t help but scoff, but it is softened by a light smile. 

     “Thanks, angel.”

\--

It’s a couple hours later, nearly dawn, and Crowley is sprawled face down on Aziraphale’s couch, looking much like a drunk man who became very interested in the coins between the cushions and then decided to simply accept his fate when he forgot why he was lying down. His legs, much like a drunk man’s, are still shaking. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks softly, not sure what the appropriate volume is to get the attention of a demon but not accidentally wake him.

     “Hmm?” Crowley grunted in response.

“Sorry dear, did I wake you?”

     “No, but you would have if I’d have been asleep.” Ah. Quieter then, Aziraphale notes. “What is it?”

“Oh, I was just wondering why you weren’t sleeping, that’s all.” Aziraphale tries to sound nonchalant about it, but really he’s quite worried. If Crowley can’t sleep, that would be like him being unable to eat. It sounds miserable, and he’s sure something else is wrong. Crowley doesn’t respond for quite a while, and Aziraphale almost wonders if the demon has drifted off after all. But he eventually rolls over, serpentine eyes carefully studying the floorboards as he speaks.

     “I, ah, I can’t get comfortable,” he says, sounding almost like he’s in the confessional booth. Aziraphale is thoroughly confused. 

“What do you mean, dear?” He asks, not one to sit around being confused for too long.

Crowley doesn’t respond, but pushes himself up on his knees, twisting to awkwardly half-kneel on the couch. As he does, he lets his wings settle into this plane, and Aziraphale suddenly understands what Crowley means by uncomfortable. His wings are an absolute mess, scattered and tangled and poking in all sorts of wrong ways. “Oh, my goodness,” Aziraphale whispers, just as the wings disappear again and Crowley collapses face down on the couch again. 

     “Yeah.”

There’s a few beats of silence, before Aziraphale shakes himself and takes half a step closer.

“Oh! I could help, if you wanted,” he offers, stammering a bit. Crowley’s head turns and he stares at the angel, searching his face for something. Whatever it is, he seems to find it, because he sits up and lets his wings slowly fade into view again. 

     “Well, if you don’t mind,” he says, bowing his head and standing to let his wings droop to their full length, touching the floor.

“Not at all, not at all,” Aziraphale blusteringly reassured him, clearing space on the floor between them. He steps up behind Crowley and raises his hand, and pauses. It suddenly occurs to him that it has been millennia since he’s done this for anyone. He has rarely gotten his own wings so battered, and had usually been able to mostly preen his own hard to reach places by rubbing up against a strategically placed stack of books. But suffice it to say he was somewhat out of practice, and he had certainly never preened a  _ demon  _ before. “Let me know if anything hurts,” he tells Crowley uncertainly, and begins to tug at the first feather.

He starts with the tertiary feathers close to Crowley’s spine, and is surprised to find that they are incredibly soft, almost downy. He smooths them down with his fingers, strokes becoming more confident as he watches Crowley’s shoulders sag and his head bow forward. He moves to the secondaries, longer and pointing in all sorts of unimaginable directions. He can’t imagine how painful this has been for Crowley; their wings generally drifted through the incorporeal without complaint, but he knew that when they were this messy they tended to get snagged and in the way. It seems this had been the case, as some of Crowley’s feathers are broken or torn; when Aziraphale comes across one he smooths it back into place as gently as possible but always seems to get a flinch or hiss regardless. “Sorry dear,” he says, rubbing the base of Crowley’s wings in consolation. The demon leans back into the touch, arching his back much like a cat. Aziraphale smiles in wonder. Most of Crowley’s primaries are fine, long and easy to fix on his own. Aziraphale still goes over every one, trailing his fingers down the shimmering inky black feathers, marvelling at them.

As he does, Crowley extends his wings a little farther, letting them droop contentedly in Aziraphale’s hands. This reveals a few more ruffled downy feathers at the base of his wings, and Aziraphale gladly takes the opportunity to return to the soft, delicate feathers. He’s rubbing little circles into the fluff there when Crowley stumbles forward and jolts upright.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Aziraphale stammers, pulling his hands back from where he had reached out to catch Crowley.

When Crowley turns around, it’s clear he’s not hurt, but the expression on his face isn’t one familiar to Aziraphale, even after six millennia. He’s blinking slowly, and his pupils, usually thin serpentine lines, are near circles. Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle when he realizes: the demon looks like a cat. 

     "No, no,” Crowley mumbles, rubbing a slow hand over his face and blinking again. “Just ah, nodded off, I guess.” He looks almost sheepish as he folds up his wings, but he doesn’t unincorporate them. 

“Oh, good!” Exclaims Aziraphale, clasping his hands together. “Now you can go home and sleep.” He smiles widely, very proud of himself.

     “Right,” replies Crowley, turning slowly to search for his sunglasses. 

“Unless you don’t want to, of course,” Aziraphale offers quickly, noting Crowley’s reluctance in a rare display of perception. “If you’re not tired.”

Crowley has his sunglasses back on, but Aziraphale can still see the small smile that crawls across his face. “Thanks, angel,” he says, wavering. “Do you mind if I, ah, stay here and sleep?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at the couch. 

“Oh yes, yes of course,” Aziraphale is quick to reassure him, unhelpfully also pointing at the couch.

Crowley nods a couple times, and slowly reaches up to remove his sunglasses again. But he doesn’t lie down quite yet, just sits there rubbing his wings slowly together as he stares at the floor.

“Is there, ah, something else you need, dear?” Aziraphale asks. “A blanket maybe? Chamomile tea? I’m afraid I don’t really know how this works… A pillow, perhaps?"  Crowley chuckles, and shakes himself. 

     “No, no, I’m fine. Don’t trouble yourself.” He turns over and lays again on the couch, curled up so that his wings drape down onto the floor. 

“Oh, okay. Goodnight Crowley,” Aziraphale offers, somewhat awkwardly. 

     “Night, Aziraphale,” Crowley responds, somewhat huffily.

—

It may be ten minutes later, or perhaps two hours, but Aziraphale has read exactly three words of his book. Crowley is still laying on the couch, and he hasn’t stirred a bit, but his breathing is suspiciously uneven and his shoulders are suspiciously stiff. And, damn it all, Aziraphale keeps sneaking glances over his shoulder at those gorgeous, almost iridescent wings, sprawled out over his couch and onto the floor. They’re absolutely beautiful, and Aziraphale’s hands are itching to touch them again, feel the cool smoothness of his flight wings, the soft warmth of the downy primaries. 

Finally, after reading “But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence” for the thirty seventh time that night, he turns completely in his chair and stands up. The floorboards creak painfully loudly under his footsteps as he makes his way over to kneel next to Crowley. 

His fingers barely brush one of Crowley’s feathers before the demon’s shoulders tense up, spine rippling with apprehension. Aziraphale freezes, hand hovering in midair. “So sorry, dear,” he frets in a whisper, starting to back away. “Thought you were asleep.”

Suddenly, a hand reaches out and grabs at him, holding him still. 

     “No, it’s fine. It’s okay,” Crowley says into the couch cushions, clearly refusing to move otherwise. 

“Oh. Oh, well then,” Aziraphale nods, slowly spreading his hands over Crowley’s feathers again. As he works over them once more, simply marveling at the sheen and magnificence of them, he also watches as Crowley’s shoulders begin to relax, and his breath gives way to gentle sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, that quote is from Oscar Wilde's "A House of Pomegranates." I literally just picked up my copy of Wilde short stories and flipped it open and took a quote from the first page I saw, because I actually am that bitch.


End file.
